I write as an outlet, as two of our children battle cancer, positive for Li-Fraumeni Syndrome. I cannot say how often I have heard the phrase, "I cannot even imagine..." but hope to give a glimpse of what this is like...and to reassure you that it is not all bad, despite the challenges.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Graduation

It seems that now, at every age, there is a "Graduation," marked with ceremony and celebration. I was unable to attend Olivia's preschool graduation last year. But, while I had initially thought that such a thing was a bit over the top, I must concede that the photos of the munchkins in tiny caps and gowns were absolutely adorable. Her eager anticipation about going kindergarten was no less than her current excitement about going to first grade. She loves school.

Graduation, pausing to note accomplishments and a time of transition, was less frequently celebrated when I was growing up, reserved for the completion of high school, and again for the completion of college. But, while there seems to be more ceremony these days, I hope that there is equal pause for reflection.

I have often said that I would return to middle school or high school for neither love nor money. In talking with others, there is a common memory of it being an awkward transition, of not feeling comfortable in your own skin which, in literal terms was morphing while you watched, not quite child yet not quite adult. Never mind about being comfortable with your place in the world. During those teenage years, the world is filled with equally awkward, morphing beings.

So, as we have recently been immersed in medical transition, punctuated by what I hope to be considered 'final exams' in the form of a broken foot for Brent and a few days later, an EMS visit to our home in the middle of the night, Brent noted that he would be going to the high school next year. I was aware of this in a rather theoretical way, having signed his class selection forms some time ago. But as the march to the end of the school year wraps up, and his days at the middle school can now be counted on one hand, this transition has become far more real.

Last week, there was an academic awards ceremony that we attended. I had never gone to this before, which I find curious. Alex has always been a good student. But early in his middle school years, both boys played travel soccer. Perhaps one (or both) of them had games on that evening and we elected not to go. In Alex's eighth grade year, we were in the midst of chemotherapy for Brent, and there is no question as to why we would have missed.

At any rate, this night marked the accomplishments of honor roll students and academic teams such as Power of the Pen, the math team, and model UN. There was a string quartet and later a flute ensemble. It was a lovely program that they put together. Additionally, there are special awards given for art, strong moral character and inspiration.

Brent received the inspiration award, for maintaining his academic standing despite being absent for nearly half of his middle school years. He received a standing ovation and I wept like a baby.

I think about the awkward changes that Brent has endured at a time when all kids just desperately want to fit in. Brent went to school most erratically, attended bald-headded for a time, on crutches for two years, for weeks with a drain pinned under his shirt, and always with the determination to stay in his advanced classes, and to do the work that was required. While his identity could not be attached to his physical form, which has morphed even more than the average teenager, he was grounded in his intellectual identity and his friendships.

I am most grateful for the environment that the schools here promote, as well as the individual families. The middle school years, which can be fraught with uncertainty and transition have not disappointed us in this regard. Ours was filled with medical uncertainty and perpetual transition. However, the one constant that we found, was the kindness and compassion of the community, particularly in the students at the middle school. The teachers and the staff there have fostered an environment of empathy, and validation, evidenced by the awards given for students who serve as models of courtesy, compassion and respect

I have seen countless other examples of this. Just yesterday, as a part of the Kick-It campaign, where individual students organize events to raise money for pediatric cancer research, a special needs student called the Chardon Polka Band to come play for the lunch periods. They generously agreed, and there were students pushing others in wheelchairs, teachers dancing with each other, with students. It was all fantastic.

While I would still not want to return to the awkward teenage years, if I had to, I would certainly like to do it in an environment such as this one. I think that Brent is ready to graduate from the turbulent times of the past three years. I think that we all are.

About Me

Our pediatric cancer adventure was complicated by the discovery of a genetic mutation (Li-Fraumeni Syndrome) which predisposes two of my children to all forms of cancer. While Brent, now 16, battled osteosarcoma (bone cancer), we found that Lauren, now 13, had a rare brain tumor. Since our initial problems in 2011, Brent developed two subsequent cancers (Metastatic melanoma and AML--a leukemia that required bone marrow transplant) and Lauren had a second brain tumor removed.

I share both the challenges and the blessings of this life, pretty freely.